


To Pay a Debt Brought Back from the War

by Katowisp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, BAMF Dean Winchester, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Angst, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Gen, Growing Up, Hurt Dean Winchester, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Sam Winchester, Kid Winchesters (Supernatural), Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:29:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katowisp/pseuds/Katowisp
Summary: Bobby takes care of the Winchester boys, until he doesn't.





	To Pay a Debt Brought Back from the War

Author: Katowisp/K.Firefly  
Disclaimers: I wish they were mine!

To Pay a Debt Brought Back from the War

 

With Mary gone and two boys to raise as hunters, John resorted to the only thing he knew: Marine Corps training. His boys were his very own fire team reduced, and he taught them how to move as one. He had always seen his family as a fire team, the Marine Corps’ smallest, most basic level of leadership and functionality. His family, once, had been a complete fire team. Mary was his ‘Ready’, his scout, assisting him, the Team leader. Dean was Fire and Sammy was the Assist. But now he had lost his Ready, and was left with only the firing portions of the team. He had moved through Vietnam, as a fire team reduced, after he’d lost his Ready to an ambush. He never thought he would again feel as empty as he had when he’d lost one of his Marines. 

When Sammy was old enough, he would train them how to clear rooms, how to move through the forest quietly, how to maintain proper dispersion, how to survive off the wilderness, how to apply basic field aid and the dangers of a tourniquet. 

“The trick,” John explained as he showed Dean the proper way to smear the face paint, “is to stay far apart that an explosion won’t take the entire team out, but close enough that you can see hand and arm signals without difficulty. If the terrain is hilly or the foliage dense, then what does that mean?”

“It means that dispersion has to be kept close,” a young Dean responded, his face screwed up in concentration. 

Sam had become antsy, and so Dean had his arms wrapped tightly around his younger brother. John noted that it would be a few years before Sam would become useful. Until then, he would have to raise Dean to protect his brother when he was gone. Something, unfortunately, that was going to be happening a lot. Maybe permanently.

Definitely permanently, but maybe sooner than he had planned. 

Next was land navigation. John found military maps of the local woods and acquired a compass and protractor. He explained grid coordinates and terrain features, making Dean point out the difference between draws and fingers.

“Explain it to me.” John demanded. 

“An average grid square is 1,000 square meters. You are always supposed to begin reading from the southwest corner of the square. A four digit grid coordinate is 1,000 meters, six digits is narrowed to 100 meters, but to be as accurate as possible, reducing the reading to 10 meters, is an eight digit co-ordinate.”

“Good. How do you use your protractor?”

“The protractor enables a user to pinpoint the grid-coordinate, to make it science and not a guessing game. It also allows a user to shoot an azimuth.”

“And what’s an azimuth?”

“After I’ve determined a route based off a significant terrain feature, I use the protractor to determine an angle of exit. Using the bezel ring on the compass, I can then establish the azimuth on my compass. I take the angle, divide it by three, and the resulting number is the amount of clicks that I rotate the bezel ring. If my azimuth is smaller than 180 degrees, I rotate the—“

“Okay, good. You understand it,” John said, cutting in. Dean’s explanation was messy, but he knew his son had a handle on land navigation.

Dean was a quick learner, anxious to impress. But John didn’t have time to praise his sons—he had to prepare them. On one clear April morning, he dropped Dean in the woods, gave him a grid coordinate back to the motel, and told Dean to plot a course. 

Two hours later a tired and soaked Dean arrived at the motel. He was clutching his laminated map with determination, and although he was something of a mess (“That draw was actually a stream. I didn’t want to mess up my azimuth, so I just went straight through it and kept my pace count. It wasn’t too deep,” Dean beamed.), he was successful. John nodded, impressed. He pushed down on his son’s head in a rare sign of affection.

“Good job, son.” That night, he allowed a rare piece of apple pie at the local Denny’s.

Dean smiled around every bite. “It almost tastes like mom’s!” And if John was in a bad mood for the rest of the evening, well, that wasn’t really Dean’s fault. But he faced the repercussions anyway. 

John kept his ear to the ground and his eyes on the papers. He dragged his sons along on cold trails and snippets of rumors. But along the way, he started fighting the things that went bump in the night, things that harmed families.

He never admitted it to Ellen or Bobby, or anybody else, but he knew what he was doing to his sons was wrong. He knew they deserved the childhoods that Mary had dreamed of. However, if he could protect other families, protect those weaker than he from the same fate, he felt he could justify what he was doing to his boys. In the Corps, he had learned about protecting the weak. Now that his wife was gone, it was all he had left. 

Then, after a year on the road, with Sammy nearly two and a half, and Dean just shy of six, he found a case that would take more than a few days.

“Bobby, I need you to watch over my sons,” John explained, gently pushing his boys forward into the house.

Sam toddled forward obediently, Dean holding his hand tightly. Bobby eyed him. They had been in boot camp together, and then in infantry training, and then assigned to the same unit. They talked occasionally, having mostly lost contact over the years. There was always a bond shared among those who had served together, but it took the strange deaths of both their wives to bring them back together. 

“Where you going?”

“I found something that needs killing. My sons aren’t old enough to look after themselves.”

“What is it?”

“A werewolf. The full moon isn’t for another half-month, but I need to prepare.” It was his first, and he wanted to make sure he did it right. He needed a plan. He needed to not have his sons underfoot. 

Bobby sighed and finally nodded his head. John gave him a rare smile.

“I owe you one, Bobby. Dean is good at land nav. He needs to learn about the weapons conditions so I can start training him with weapons when I get back.”

“You’re trying to teach him how to shoot!” Bobby looked back at the boys. “He’s what, six? Seven? Jesus, John!”

“He’s six. But he needs to learn how to protect himself.” John glanced at his sons, regret passing through his eyes. It was quick, but Bobby caught it. He pulled off his ball cap and scratched his head, giving a wearying sigh. 

“Want some coffee for the road?”

And so Bobby became the infrequent second guardian of the Winchester children.

* * * *

 

Bobby’s first impression of the boys, at six and two, was that they were quiet children, observant and well behaved. Bobby expected as much, they acted like little recruits, only speaking when spoken to. Dean spoke at the position of attention when addressed, his back rigid and his eyes unseeing. 

“At ease,” Bobby addressed the pair. 

Dean relaxed, looking at Bobby. Sam pulled on Dean’s hand. He hadn’t spoken to Bobby yet, but he’d heard him express things in simple sentences to his brother. 

Bobby pulled out his kitchen chair. It was loud against the floor, and squeaked when he settled into it. He didn’t know how to treat these kids; they were so odd, so quiet. He had dreamed about having kids with Karen. It had never worked out, and they hadn’t bothered to figure out who was at fault. It’ll create bad blood. Karen had said. I’d love you, no matter what Bobby had replied. “Pull up a chair, son.” Bobby motioned to another chair. It was full of books. Bobby put them on the table.

“Yes sir,” Dean said quietly, pulling out a chair and climbing into it. His feet dangled over the side, and he rested his small, chubby hands on the table, looking at Bobby expectantly. 

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Cheerios!” Sam exclaimed. 

“Cheerios I have.” Bobby got up and prepared the simple cereal. Pouring honey over it after adding the milk, he mixed it for a minute before bringing the bowls back to the table. Sam grabbed the spoon and happily began eating. Instantly, there was cereal and milk all over the table. Dean was much more careful.

“Dean, what do you like doing for fun?”

“I haven’t learned how to shoot yet, but I like cleaning weapons, sir,” Dean said around a mouthful. He looked like the boy he was, and not the recruit John was trying to raise.

“Well, yeah, but besides that? Favorite TV shows? Games?” Bobby tried to think of what six-year-olds liked. He was six once, but it was a very long time ago. “Do you like rocks?” Dean stopped eating, his face twisted in worry, as if he was afraid he had given the wrong answer. 

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Call me Bobby, Dean.”

Dean finished his bite and gave him a long, considering look. His face fractured in a smile. “I love rocks,” he confided quietly. “Don’t tell Dad, but sometimes I collect the coolest rocks I find when he has me doing land navigation. I had a collection, but,” Dean stirred his spoon in the milk. “We had to leave them behind at one of the hotels.”

John was gone longer than a month, and Dean, while still incredibly protective of his brother, began to loosen up under Bobby’s rule. Bobby had managed to locate some old Hot Wheels, and Dean and Sam were soon crashing cars with vigor. Bobby promised to himself that he would teach Dean the shooting stances, but he had a car to fix, and needed the money, so days turned into weeks, and pretty soon Dean and Sammy were spending their time exploring the nearby woods and stream, this time without gird co-ordinates and maps. 

“Bobby!” Dean cried, plowing through the nearby field. The grass was nearly as tall as he, and Bobby made a mental note to cut it. He put the wrench down, wiping his hands on his coveralls as he waited for the two boys to come bounding over. “Bobby! Look what I found!” Dean ran up to him, out of breath and with a huge grin on his face. Sam came tottering after him, also yelling excitedly if somewhat nonsensically.

“What is it?” Dean held up a stick where some mutation in the tree had caused a nearly softball sized lump grow in the middle. He looked incredibly proud. He held it out to Bobby.

“That’s really cool, Dean,” Bobby said, taking the stick and observing it. He gave it back. “We better make a box for you, so you can keep all your stuff somewhere.”

But Bobby never had a chance to follow up on his promise. John returned the next day, and the boys were gone. His house fell silent again, and Bobby easily fell back into the routine of a lonely widower.

* * * *

On a rainy day in July when Dean was eight, and Sam five, Bobby worked on the box he had promised years earlier. It was rough around the edges, and the hinge sometimes caught, but Bobby had polished it up and carved their names in it. John dropped them off with the same amount of ceremony as usual (none) and left with the same amount of grace (also none) and Bobby was left with two sad little boys. When he showed them the box, Sam’s despair immediately lifted. At eight, Dean had grown even more guarded, but soon enough the boys were spending their days finding leaves and other small trinkets to glue to the outside. Thereafter, everything they found disappeared into the wooden box.

In late July, Bobby taught them how to press flowers. Sam, despite his age, was much better at it than his brother. Dean quickly grew disinterested with the tedious process of picking the flowers, carefully placing them between wax sheets, and then pressing them under heavy books. Sam, with chubby fingers and careful deliberation, was a natural.

“Bobby, this is boring!” Dean complained loudly. 

“It’s good training,” Bobby said, carefully preparing his own dandelion. He had a cellar full of dandelion wine, but that was something to show the boys later. “If you find an unusual plant on a hunt, or a plant with healing capabilities, you need to be able to preserve it so you can refer to it again, or use it.” 

Dean’s face changed at the mention of a hunt, and he reconsidered the flowers spread out across the kitchen table again. Bobby saw Dean was at war with himself. Finally, Dean pushed himself away from the table, his face scrunched up in defiance. Bobby felt a burst of pride in his chest. John hadn’t been able to unintentionally destroy the little boy hiding inside entirely. “It’s still boring!” Dean exclaimed, “I’m going outside to play!”

Dean jumped from the chair and ran for the door. He pushed the screen door and then stopped, looking hesitantly back at Sammy. “You going to be okay, Sammy?”

“Yes!” Sam giggled, shoving the flowers onto the wax. He slammed the dictionary down onto his work with exuberance. 

Dean came back in the late afternoon when the sun was a ripe gold, low in the sky. His hair was mussed and face muddy. The boy could find dirt in a hospital. He had managed to tear his knee open, too, but it was already clotted. Happiness radiated from him. His pockets were filled with rocks of varying sizes and colors, which he dumped proudly into his treasure box. 

“Boy, you sure are a mess,” Bobby said, trying to sound more grumpy than he felt. “Come on, let’s go get you boys cleaned up.”

Sam played in the bathtub while Bobby scrubbed the dirt and rocks out of Dean’s knee while he sat on the toilet. Dean winced, but was surprisingly stoic. Sometimes, Bobby forgot that Dean was being raised as a little hunter first and that childhood was a far second. Finally, Dean swung his good leg out at Bobby, catching him in the shoulder. 

“Hey!” Bobby said, grabbing Dean’s leg.

“It hurts, Bobby!”

“Well, you should’ve come in before it started scabbing up!”

“I saw a tree I had to climb!” Dean rolled his eyes with the superiority of an eight-year-old that knew an adult just didn’t get it. 

“Don’t you get smart with me, Dean!” Bobby pulled the last rock out with his tweezers. “Okay, done. Strip and get in the tub with your brother. Dinner’ll be on in fifteen.” 

Bobby stood up; made sure Dean was following his command, and then headed back downstairs to where the taco meat was waiting. Soon enough, the brothers came crowding down the stairs, clamoring for food. Bobby served the tacos, and watched as they dug in.

“Manners, Dean! Stop making a mess, Sam!” He reprimanded, and instantly, both boys reigned themselves in.

“Bobby, can we go firefly hunting after dinner?” Sam ventured, looking up at Bobby with his large, hazel eyes. Bobby sighed. Those eyes were going to get a lot of girls in trouble, one day. 

“As long as you don’t let any out in the house. I don’t need firefly carcasses all over my floors.”

The boys spend the rest of the evening chasing fireflies across the front of Bobby’s yard. He’d made a point to clean it up over the passage of summer. He didn’t want their feet sliced open on rusty car parts he’d left there.

By the time the stars were out, the Mason jar was filled with gentle, intermittent lights. Bobby handed them cut-up watermelon, and the boys sat on the porch stairs, quietly discussing something that made them giggle every so often. Dean was practicing spitting seeds, and insisted that was he better than Sammy, despite the fact that neither of them could see where the black seeds were going. Bobby watched them silently; sorrow curling up in his heart. This was the life these boys deserved, but sooner or later, John would be back.

 

* * * *

 

Summer ended, and Bobby pulled some strings to get the boys enrolled in the local school. He’d given up on calling John, with his “I’ll be back soon,” and “Just a little longer, hope the boys aren’t being a problem.” Bobby thought maybe one day, John wouldn’t come back at all, and it’d be no great surprise. He worried about what it would do to the boys, especially Dean, who never allowed Sam or Bobby to say something bad about his absent father. 

Sam was a natural at school, doing his homework automatically when he came home. Dean watched over him, and made sure it was completed for the next day. However, despite ensuring his brother’s work ethic, Dean had a surprising lack of schoolwork. Bobby was not at all surprised when he got a call from the teacher in the second week.

“Mr. Singer, I’m calling to inform you about some concerns I have for Dean. He has turned in very little homework so far, and what little he has turned in isn’t complete. Also, I’m a little worried about his imagination—his stories in creative writing class are vivid and frightening. Does he have a lot of nightmares? The school offers counseling services…”

“It’s fine—what did you say your name was?”

“Mrs. Felch.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Felch. I’ll speak to Dean tonight.”

When the bus dropped the pair off from school that night, Bobby was waiting. He herded Sammy in, but kept Dean at the door. “I got a call from the school,” Bobby stated, arms crossed. A flicker of emotion passed over Dean’s face. Bobby took it in, surprised. It had been annoyance, not fear.

“They’re a bunch of busybody old ladies,” Dean said matter of fact, trying to angle past Bobby. Bobby placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Not so fast, Dean. You gotta do your homework, boy.” Dean, who had been staring past Bobby suddenly looked up at him.

“Why, Bobby?”

So he could get good grades and become somebody. So he could go to college and get a degree. Bobby knew those were the arguments that needed to be made, but as he looked down at the boy, so adept in land navigation and plotting points, skilled with a knife and buckets of common sense that most boys his age lacked, Bobby found he couldn’t make any argument for the boons of school. Dean, with his quiet gravity and knowledge that monsters under the bed and things that went bump in the night were not the figments of an overactive imagination would never fit in with other kids. He would not end up in college or as a CEO of some bank somewhere. He would be lucky if he made it past twenty-five, with the life he would end up leading. Bobby chewed the inside of his cheek. “So you won’t be ignorant,” he finally said, the explanation sounding lame even in his ears.

“Who cares, Bobby? I know way more about other stuff that they’ll ever know. They’ll be ignorant, too. Who cares if I don’t know who somebody was, or what happened fifty years ago?” 

“Because you’ll need to know those things, so you’ll know what’s important to them. You’ll be saving these people, Dean.” Dean looked up at Bobby seriously, weighing his words.

“It’s boring,” Dean finally admitted. Bobby allowed himself a smile.

“Well, in that one, you’re the same as every other kid who’s ever gone to school. Now get in there and get to work.” Bobby stepped aside and shuffled Dean inside. 

The boy sighed dramatically, but pulled out his homework and worked quietly next to Sammy at the kitchen table. 

Bobby started dinner, watching them quietly. Soft scratching of pencil on paper and the burbling of baked beans as they heated filled the kitchen. Bobby drifted away absently, thinking of another life he could have led. One where the floral wallpaper wasn’t faded and the rugs didn’t have holes worn into them. He wondered if he would have started out on the same path if he’d had boys of his own. He doubted it. 

He tucked them into bed and that night, he made a companion of Jack. He sat on the front porch on the old swinging bench that he’d made, so beloved by the woman he had adored. The chains were old and complained under his weight as he absently rocked back and forth. 

It was a long night, and in the morning, he had a hell of a headache.

 

* * * *

John showed up just before Halloween. He had a fresh scar stretching the length of his forearm, and looked a little more haggard than usual. He’d lost weight, and was unnaturally pale. When Bobby answered the door, John had that same beseeching look he always wore when he came to Bobby. Bobby sighed and reluctantly pulled the door open. 

“Where are the boys?”

“At school,” Bobby said, pouring himself a drink. He leaned casually against his kitchen counter, fighting to keep his brows from knitting in aggravation.

“You enrolled them?”

“They gotta know how to read, and I didn’t know when you were coming back.” Bobby said a little too sharply. “It’s October!” 

John’s face grew stormy, and his mouth opened. 

“Think twice,” Bobby growled. “Because you’ve burned a lot of bridges, John.” 

John remained stony for a minute, his face finally softening. 

“Thank you, Bobby. I couldn’t take them with me this time. It was a Kelpie and it was taking kids away.”

“You shouldn’t take them anytime. Why don’t you let them grow up, John? We chose this life. You don’t raise somebody this way.”

John’s face tightened again and he frowned at Bobby.

“You can’t protect children forever, Bobby. I wouldn’t have raised them this way if I could’ve. You don’t think I want a happy life for them? But something is after my family, and I need to teach them to protect themselves.”

“But they’re kids, John!”

“And they’re my kids, and this is how I’m going to raise them!” 

Bobby’s fingers tightened on the door and they scowled at each other. With great effort, Bobby finally stepped aside and let John in. “You’ll destroy them,” Bobby ground out.

“If I didn’t teach them about the evils in the night, then I would be doing them a disservice. They aren’t normal boys, and they haven’t lead normal lives. Something came after Sam on that night, and hell if I won’t find the son of a bitch.”

Bobby opened his mouth to respond, but the door slammed open, and Dean and Sam came bounding in. Dean’s backpack was mostly empty, and Sam’s was overstuffed to the point that he had a few spare tomes in his arms. They were arguing over something fairly banal, but both stopped once they saw their father waiting for them. Dean’s face instantly lit up, and Bobby expected the boy to hug his father, and his heart fell a little when Dean kept his respective distance. Sam, however, looked guarded and wary. 

“Where’ve you been, Dad?” Sam asked.

“Working, son. I’m sorry I couldn’t come back earlier.”

Sam frowned. “You said you’d be back in August.” 

“Well, I wasn’t,” John bit back. John saw Dean shift his weight, something he only did when he was unhappy or nervous. They left that evening, John turning down the invitation to crash at Bobby’s place.

* * * *

At eleven, Dean was an excellent shot. Bobby had a range out back, and Dean was in the black with each target. He had a precision Bobby would never have guessed of the active, somewhat attention deficit boy. But when Dean was behind a weapon, he had a glint in his eye and an aura around him that was almost frightening. Bobby knew John wouldn’t be bringing him by much longer, not that he now had a son that could offer backup. Sam was becoming fairly adept himself, but he didn’t have the drive that Dean did. Bobby was sure that he trained when his father was there, but he was much more attracted to the appeals of school. All summer, he had a book at his side.

One evening, when Bobby was sitting on the swing, and Sam was on the steps, his eyes straining to read the words in a fading light, Bobby prodded the boy.

“Why do you read so much?” Bobby asked, taking a drink from the lemonade he’d made. Sam looked up, regarding Bobby with an expression that was far too old for his age. Not for the first time, Bobby cursed John.

“So I can get away from here, well not here, but you know what I mean. ” Sam faltered before his face cleared. “I’m going to be something, someday.” Not a hunter.

“Oh,” Bobby said, surprised. Well, it was straightforward enough, and Sam may not have the same interests as his father and brother, but once a Winchester was set on something, nothing in the world could change his mind. Silence stretched between them, broken with the intermittent cracks of gunfire. Dean had become keen on lowlight training recently.

“I want to be…” Sam began before trailing off uneasily. 

“Be what?”

“Normal,” Sam sighed. He closed the book, keeping a finger in to hold his place. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and Bobby thought that maybe John had raised his children the way he had so that he could deal with tiny adults and not children. Sam and Dean, for all their jackassery at times, were incredibly mature, serious children. Bobby knew that when he wasn’t around, Dean was probably doing most of the raising of Sam. Not for the first time, Bobby wondered how it was Dean that had become the hardcore hunter wannabe, and not the son raised from birth to be that way.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Two years later, John Winchester was at his door on a night alive with electricity from troubled summer storms. A warm wind had just kicked up, promising heavy rain and the possibility for more when Bobby heard the banging at the door. Grabbing his shotgun and checking the silver knife in his belt, he hastened to the door. He carefully pulled his chained door open, weight against it in case he needed to slam it shut. Instead, he pushed it close so he could quickly unchain it and threw it open again just as quickly. 

A soaked Winchester family was before him, a limp, barely conscious Dean in John’s arms. John muscled in past Bobby, his face tense. Sam trailed behind, frightened eyes catching Bobby’s as he passed. Bobby was left to close the door, and when he happened to look down, he noticed the blood trailing into his house.

“Clean off the table, Sam!” And Sam was there; pulling everything off the table so that John could stage his eldest there. 

“What happened?” Bobby moved into the kitchen, grabbing towels and setting a kettle on the stove for hot water. He grabbed the first aid kit he kept stashed under the sink. 

“A ghoul.”

Dean was bloody, his arms wrapped around a stomach torn up by angry claws. He looked at Bobby hazily, his face dazed in pain. He kept trying to roll over into his side so he could instinctively curl up into the fetal position. John had a steady hand on his shoulder though, keeping him in place. His breathing was ragged, and Bobby hoped it was just shock.

“Shit, John, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?” He cut the boy’s clothing away, dismayed at the sight. In addition to the deep claw marks across his stomach, there was a puncture wound in his shoulder, a little too close to the artery. His chest had been raked too, shallow, albeit bloody.

“I can’t.” John says with finality. Bobby sighed in frustration.

“Goddammit, this isn’t about your hunts, this is about your boy!”

“I didn’t come here for a Goddamned lecture, Bobby! Help me save my son!” John slammed a hand on the table, and Bobby finally recognized the fear in John’s eyes. Sighing, he nodded and pulled the boiling water off the stove.

As Bobby cleaned out Dean’s wounds, he wished the boy would fall unconscious. His brother and father held him down, and Dean wasn’t half so loud as a boy his age should be with wounds like that, but it was still painful for Bobby to treat. 

Finally, he’d patched him up as best as he could, and the boy passed out from exhaustion and pain. John went to the bathroom to wash up, and Bobby was left with an exhausted Sam, covered in the blood of his brother. For the first time, Bobby saw tears well in his eyes, and Sam anxiously wiped them away, leaving streaks of drying blood across his face. Bobby crouched next to the boy. (Still short for his age, but beginning to become gangly. He would be tall one day.)

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s not the first time, but it’s never been that bad before.” Sam said quietly. There was a slump in his shoulders that was never there before, and Bobby gently ruffled his hair and handed him a clean towel.

“Go get yourself cleaned up. Dean’ll be okay.”

Sam nodded and left the room silently, a ghost of a boy.

John was back, and he picked up Dean carefully, cradling his head to his chest. With a gentleness Bobby didn’t know the former Marine had, John carried Dean into the spare room and tucked him in, mindful of his numerous bandages. Bobby stood at the door, watching as John brushed the hair away from Dean’s face.

“Dad?” Dean stirred. John allowed him a brief smile.

“You did well tonight, son.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“For what, Dean?”

“I took too long to kill it.” And Dean passed out again, his face pale against the sheets. John looked up at Bobby.

“He’s a fighter. He’ll be okay.” John stood up, moved past Bobby and back to the kitchen, where he started cleaning up. 

There was blood everywhere, and Bobby was going to have to get a new kitchen table. Luckily, he wasn’t the type of man to put a lot of money into this sort of thing, and it would be a cheap replacement for a cheap table.

“He could have died,” Bobby said at the doorway. 

“But he didn’t.”

“John, they’re boys. Send them to school somewhere. Do something, but for the love of God, you’re destroying their childhoods. You’re destroying their chance for normality.”

“Their chance for normality was destroyed the night something killed their mother in that house.”

“Put it to rest! Let them live, John! If they choose this life later, then fine!”

“Bobby, don’t you ever lecture me on my children.”

They left a week later, Dean moving stiffly, his face pale and drawn. Sam tried to help him down the porch steps, Dean trying unsuccessfully to push him away and Bobby caught the glance resentment and anger, deep and boiling, that Sam shot his father. As they drove away, Bobby realized that happy little nucleus of a family wasn’t going to last much longer.

(If it had ever existed at all.)

* * * *

During the summer of Dean’s freshman year of high school, John dropped them off one last time. There wasn’t much conversation, and it was clear he was pissed to be doing it at all, but Sam had fallen down the steps of a haunted house and his right arm was to be in a cast for the next six weeks, and Dean had been assigned to stay with him. 

Bobby didn’t know if it was a last vacation for the boy, or if John thought Sam would get too independent without a motivated family member nearby. John had never really been the giving type, so Bobby figured it was probably the latter.

Dean was cockier, louder, nearly bordering on obnoxious. He was horny, anxious to go into town to find girls, but Bobby rolled his eyes and kept the boys close. Sam fought more often with his brother, but nothing undue. It was only when their father or hunting was brought up that Sam got a glint in his eye and his insults were sharper.

Dean spent more time than ever practicing and honing his skills. Sam dove into all of Bobby’s old texts, and Bobby realized what a boring man he’d become; all these books, and nothing but lore and mythologies.

Leather-bound books collected over the years had given his house a musty smell, and Bobby looked around his house with something akin to embarrassment. The wallpaper was gross, faded and torn. The pictures on the walls had all been knocked askew, their frames heavy with dust, the glass milky with age and neglect. Various sigils were carved throughout the house, he had a nearly completed monster-proof room in his basement, he knew thousands of different stories from dozens of different cultures, but, Bobby realized, he found it nearly impossible to carry on conversations with a normal human.

Teenagers weren’t normal humans.

Bobby stood on the back porch, watching Dean shoot targets andSam paw through Egils Saga, drinking in the lore on Norse haubui and draugr and Bobby realized he had been as much a part of the misraising of the Winchester boys as their actual father had been. He had justified to himself that he’d had no choice—they weren’t his boys, after all—but he could’ve done something. Anything, to save these boys from the miserable, lonely life of a hunter, always saving his fellow man, but absolutely unable to relate to them.

 

Bobby slunk back into the house and began dinner. When he was done, he called them in. He heard their steps over the ground, and for a moment, was reminded of the five-year-old Dean, rigid in his answers, and Sam, shy to speak at all. 

They left the next day.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The deep, throaty rumble of a familiar car announced its presence just before Bobby heard the car rolling over the rocky driveway. He rose with a sigh and waited at the door in trepidation. He watched as Dean launched himself out from behind the wheel and Bobby felt uneasiness lodge in his throat. John would never let Dean drive. 

Dean limped to the passenger side, and then Bobby was moving down the stairs to help Dean with his barely conscious father. They looped his limp arms around their shoulders, and together they managed to get him into the house. Sam followed behind quietly. 

They got John stretched out on the bed, and Bobby surveyed his injuries. They weren’t bad—it was the head wound that was the most troublesome. There was nothing to do but wait it out. He cleaned it and checked his eyes—concussion—but there was something else, too.

“What did you boys get into?”

“A fairy nest. They had some sort of dust. Dad’s been acting weird, and I can’t get him to stay conscious. I don’t know what’s going on.” Desperation brought a panicked edge to Dean’s voice, and Bobby chewed his cheek. 

“He’s been charmed. We have to wait and ride it out. He probably thinks he’s somewhere else. You got him out in time, so it shouldn’t take too long. He’ll be okay.”

“Oh, good,” Dean said, all rigidity instantly leaving his frame as he slipped from the chair and passed out.

Bobby surged forward catching him before he hit the floor. Sam rushed forward from where he’d been waiting at the door. Bobby’s hand came away sticky with blood. Sam gave him a wild-eyed look. 

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Help me get him up.”

The wound wasn’t deep, but it had oozed steadily over the last day.

The combination of stress and blood loss was enough. Sam was torn between anger and fear. “I told him to take care of himself! But he said we had to get Dad to you!”

Bobby dipped a washcloth in hot water and carefully cleaned the wound. Patching up Winchesters was becoming entirely too commonplace. He should charge for this. Sam stood behind him unhappily, shifting his weight and making aggravated noises occasionally. 

“Go get the painkillers; your brother is going to need ‘em when he wakes up,” Bobby ordered, tired of the angst oozing off the youngest Winchester. Sam obeyed, and Bobby was left alone with Dean. He allowed his shoulders to slump and he felt old. 

“Damn it all, but you’re my brood, now, too. Seeing you injured kills me,” Bobby said to Dean. “Would if I could give you the life you deserve to live.”

“Bobby, you don’t have a lot left,” Sam said at the doorway. He placed the orange prescription bottle on the bedside table. 

“Maybe if dumb Winchesters didn’t keep using it all up, I’d have more left.”

“Don’t blame me!” Sam sneered. 

Bobby sighed. “Boy, when did you get so damn pouty?”

“I’m not pouty!” Sam said sharply. Bobby could see the worry in the tense line in Sam’s shoulders, and the crease in his brow. 

“Go to bed. You need the rest and your brother and dad will be fine.”

Sam spent the night at Dean’s bedside. Bobby brought an extra blanket by and left the brothers alone. He stopped by John’s room.

“You’re a damn fool, John.”

John didn’t respond. He wouldn’t have, even if he’d been awake.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o

John stumbled into the kitchen and sat heavily at the kitchen table. Bobby glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to his macaroni and cheese. He was particularly proud of the fact that he had never made a boxed macaroni and cheese in his life. He smoothly stirred the cheese sauce. He turned on the coffee pot.

“How long have I been out?”

“Just the day. Boys brought you in last night.”

“How are they?”

“Dean’s woken a few times, but he’s still sleeping. Sam’s off studying somewhere.”

“How bad off is Dean?”

“Not too bad. Couple more days of rest and he’ll be right as rain. He’s exhausted, much as anything. You been running these boys ragged.”

“Got a lot of work,” John said tersely.

The coffee pot burbled

“Let them stay with me, finish out the school year.”

“I need them.” 

Bobby ground his teeth and glared at the cheese sauce. It bubbled and Bobby pulled it off the heat. Silence fell between them as Bobby poured the sauce over the noodles, turning them over to mix it. The coffee pot gurgled along happily, dinging when it was done. Bobby roughly placed a cup before John, coffee sloshing over the sides.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” John said abruptly and Bobby clenched the wooden mixing spoon in his hand and glared at John.

“The hell you are. Dean needs rest.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“You’re making a sore mistake if you’re going to take him now.” Bobby said tightly.

John swelled with anger. “Are you threatening me, Bobby?”

“I’m tired you bringing in your broken sons and asking me to take care of them, and then snatching them up before you’ve let the heal properly! They’re boys, John!” The argument sounded tired even in Bobby’s ears, but it grated on Bobby every day.

“They can’t be boys! Not in this world!” John said angrily, standing up and setting his hands firmly down on the table. Bobby wagged his spoon, cheese sauce flying from it.

“Then, by God, you stop yanking them around! Don’t bring your sorry ass self around here anymore if you’re going to pull your same old tired shit!”

“Bobby, I swear to God…” John ground out, his hands clenching, knuckles turning white around the mug.

“Dad?” Sam asked, interrupting them abruptly. 

“Get your brother,” John said, standing up, hands clenched beside him. 

“But Dad—“

“Get your brother, Sam,” John instructed. Sam paused at the door, conflicting emotions crossing his face. He looked ready to argue when John glared at him. Sam looked to Bobby for help.

“Get your brother, Sam, and put him in the car,” John reiterated, speaking deliberately. 

“Dad, he’s still hurt! He needs to rest!” Sam finally said, his eyes wide with anger and anxiety. Bobby could see the open rebellion was a newer addition to the Winchester household, and he silently cheered Sam on. 

“Now, Sam.”

Sam stood for a moment longer in the door and then abruptly stormed out. Bobby could hear the boy angrily throwing things into his duffle bag. He heard Dean’s quiet, confused groan as Sam woke him. Bobby glared at John.

“Get out.” Bobby said angrily.

John sneered at him. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He stormed off to finish packing.

Bobby helped Sam settle Dean into the spacious back seat, padding him generously with blankets and a pillow. Dean was too pale, deep black circles gathered under his eyes.

“We’re leaving?” He asked dazedly. 

“Sorry, boys,” Bobby said tersely.

“It’s okay, Bobby.” Sam said. 

Bobby patted Sam awkwardly on the shoulder. “Take care of yourselves, and your fool of a father.”

“Yes, Bobby,” Dean said automatically, his eyes too bright. He sank back into the pillow.

Bobby headed back into the house, heaping the macaroni and cheese into an old Tupperware container. He was on his way back to the car when John came storming down the stairs, a cloud of thunder and rage. He paused when he caught Bobby’s eye. 

“I’m not unthankful for the times you took care of my boys,” John bit out grudgingly. 

“You’re an idiot,” Bobby said. “Your boys will hate you.” He reached out for the shotgun he kept next to the door. “Now get out.”

John moved deliberately towards the door. Bobby followed his path with the barrel of the gun. John paused at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth open as if he was about to say something. 

“Don’t you ever darken my doorstep again, John Winchester.” Bobby growled, firing off a warning shot at John’s feet. John glared at him before turning abruptly, storming towards the car. 

Bobby cradled the shotgun in his arms, watching as John revved the car and peeled out over the loose gravel. Sam and Dean’s faces appeared in the back window, and Bobby could see the hurt and confusion on them. The car turned around the bend and was gone. Bobby stood on the porch a while longer, hearing the rumble of the Impala grow steadily more distant. When it had all but faded, he slumped into the chair, staring out at nothing. 

 

~Fin

A/N: Thanks a lot to Becca. She’s a stalwart friend and editor, and as always, she brought this from crap and made it something that’s hopefully halfway decent. 

I really like the surrogate father position that Bobby holds, and wanted to expand a little on what their childhood may have been like. I hope you all enjoy my interpretation! 

If, for whatever insane reason, you want to read more about lensatic compasses, go here:  
http://lensaticcompass.blogspot.com/

I know that in season one, John gave them polar co-ordinates, but I think that was GPS. As a Marine, he would’ve learned basic land navigation, and that’s what he would’ve taught his boys at.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago, but I think I'll be getting back into the Supernatural fandom, too.


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